Quid Pro Quo
by LadySilver
Summary: Joe's had to train Watchers before. Why his new trainee would have to be that Watcher, though, is a question for the ages. Season 3 AU (ish).


_A/N: Written for lynndyre as part of the genfic exchanged, based on prompts for a Methos & Joe story that explores how Joe found out about Methos. As always, comments, questions, concrit, and squee are welcomed._

Quid Pro Quo

by LadySilver

_Effective Immediately_, the letter concluded. Not even a pretense of sounding polite or amicable, Joe thought with a shake of his head. Just a set of policy changes guaranteed to upend operations at every level and in every district, handed down from on high with no notice, warning, or even a chance for the senior officials to discuss implementation. Joe crumpled the piece of paper and shoved it in his pocket; the rest of the letters—bills, most likely—got tossed into the basket he kept under the counter, to be dealt with later when he could stomach more bad news. "This one's shaping up to be a great day," he murmured, only then realizing that he was no longer alone in the bar.

Afternoons were a time when the bar was technically open, yet usually empty. Only the desperate or disowned found their way to a bar in the middle of the afternoon, and while Joe had been cursing at the letter that had arrived with the daily mail, one of them had found his way into his bar. He now hunkered on a stool in the darkest corner the bar had to offer, huddled so deep in his peacoat that he looked more like a mound of laundry than a person.

Joe was tempted to throw him out, close the bar up, and lock himself in the office to call up every person on the Watcher's Board until he yelled some sense through their heads. It was still early enough that his targets were bound to all be awake, which could even work to his advantage. Not that he had any qualms about preventing people from getting a good night's sleep when they deserved it. And, on second thought, the new Council policy was going to cost _him_ more than a few nights' sleep. Returning the favor was the least he owed them.

With a swipe of a hand over his graying hair, as if to signal the transition from his Watcher role to his bartender role, Joe called out, "What can I get you?"

The coat stirred and a pale face and prodigious nose poked out. The man was young, at least two decades Joe's junior, with the demeanor of a person with tragedy on his shoulders. A sudden, broken relationship, Joe suspected. Maybe a death in family. Joe couldn't solve whatever problem had brought the man here, but he could offer some temporary solace.

Joe was reaching for a bottle under the counter even as the man finally found his words: "Beer," he said. The single syllable revealed just enough accent to stay Joe's hand. Travelers and tourists did find their way to Joe's Bar, but Joe sensed that this man had picked his destination and had a specific medicine in mind.

"You want bottle or tap?"

The man regarded the offerings on display, then rejected them all with a shake of his head. "What do you have that's not on draught?"

This territory was comfortable to Joe. Settling into his role, he ran through the selection of bottles, observing the squints of the eye and the curl of lips at each description that told him which appealed to the customer's taste and how much he was likely to spend on this visit. Joe quickly realized that this man had truly impressive beer knowledge, the first sign that Joe had misjudged whom he was dealing with.

"Now if it's hops you want-" Joe started, the customer already having made his preference against them clear.

The man smiled at the jibe and extended his hand across the bar like he'd come in for an interview rather than a drink. "Adam Pierson." And maybe he had. From out of the end of his cuff peeped the purple curve of a Watcher's tattoo. With this new information, Joe realized that he'd spoken to this man before, once, over a phone line that crinkled with trans-Atlantic static. It had been a short call, made when the man had taken on his researcher position, to introduce himself to the district heads around the world. While most researchers didn't bother to reach beyond their geographic territory, this one had to because of the nature of his subject. Joe remembered being impressed.

He wasn't so impressed now.

"I know who you are," Joe answered, unable to keep the coldness from his voice.

Adam regarded him across the burnished barrier of wood between them, then slowly retracted his hand. "I thought you might." Only a slight tilt of his head giving away that he knew what Joe was referencing. "MacLeod has a reputation for trusting his friends too much."

Looking closer at the guy, Joe searched the faint lines around the eyes and mouth for any sign of the age they concealed. While Joe knew perfectly well how Immortals and immorality worked, he'd never before been so sure that an exception had to exist. And, yet, he saw nothing in this man of the age that had to exist, and that made it difficult to know what to be on guard against. "Maybe he trusts them enough," Joe countered. "Does MacLeod know you're here?"

"No."

Joe waited for the rest of it: an explanation or excuse. Perhaps a threat. Only the faint ticking of the ancient pipes in the building and the rushing of traffic outside filled the space between the two men. When it finally became clear that Adam was waiting for him to speak, Joe obliged. "Tell me why I shouldn't call him right now."

Adam shifted; Joe couldn't say what exactly changed in his posture or his bearing, but suddenly the derelict was gone. The person remaining was the kind who knew exactly what he he wanted and had no doubt he was going to get it. Joe had never much liked that kind of person. "MacLeod doesn't strike me as the kind of man who's interested in Watcher business," Adam answered. He slapped a bill on the bar top. "How about that beer, Joe?"

Joe picked up the bill and took his sweet time checking it for authenticity; he crinkled the paper, held it up to the light coming through the front windows, and finally pulled out the counterfeit detection marker and put it to work. Adam watched the proceedings with a look of calm amusement, as if Joe were playing his part exactly the way Adam had already scripted it out. Joe was tempted to do something rash, like tear the bill in half and throw it in the blender, just to see if Adam would have thought of _that_ too, but then decided that money was money. He deposited the bill in the register, and handed over the requested bottle. No change, though. Adam looked like a stingy tipper.

"You've got a lot of nerve bringing up Watcher business." Joe felt his eyes narrowing and his teeth beginning to grind together as more recriminations built up.

"I'm still a Watcher, Joe," Adam replied. "I've been a Watcher off and on since there _were_ Watchers." He took a swig of his beer and propped his arms on the bar top, adopting a posture that could have been read as casual if not for how his eyes kept flicking around the bar: toward the door, the windows, the hallway to the restrooms.

Sensing that he'd found a weakness, Joe pressed on with his point. "Watchers and Immortals live in two different worlds. That's the way it's supposed to work."

"And never the twain shall meet," Adam muttered.

Joe glared at him. For an Immortal to infiltrate the Watchers was a betrayal of the mission. How Adam could not understand that was beyond him; a person who had lived as long as Adam allegedly had couldn't be that oblivious, could he? No, Joe decided; Adam-_Methos_-would know exactly what he was doing and he probably didn't care much whether Joe, or any other mortal, approved. Joe reached for the one threat that might actually carry some weight: "How do you know that I didn't turn you in?"

Adam rolled the beer bottle between his palms, tracing a long trail of condensation across the width of the bar. Finally, he shrugged, just as if he'd given the question serious consideration and had finally arrived at an answer. "Because if you had, I'd be standing trial before the Tribunal right now instead of sitting here getting ready to ask you to take me on as your trainee."

"If the Tribunal knew what you were, they wouldn't bother with a...you want me to take you on as my what?" Images of his own trial before the Tribunal flashed through Joe's mind. Concealing the identity of an Immortal was crime enough, but knowingly aiding an Immortal's continued infiltration of the Watchers would sacrifice any leniency they might be willing to grant him. And the Tribunal was not known for its leniency.

"Maybe you should pour yourself a drink," Adam suggested, sounding entirely too reasonable, "and hear me out."

"Hear you out? Hear you out?! Do you have any idea what you're asking?

"The way I see it-" Adam continued to speak with the all the contemplative nonchalance of a person wondering what time the sun was due to set- "We'll both benefit. A mortal researcher doing his fieldwork with you would feel obligated to report your friendship with MacLeod. You wouldn't have to worry about that from me."

There it was. With a snap that might have been the click of his teeth slamming together, Joe caught a glimpse of how Adam had lived as long as he had: by saying or doing whatever he thought would keep himself alive. "So, if I don't let you come train with me, you'll report _me_ to the Council, is that right?"

Adam gestured toward Joe's pocket and the piece of paper that crinkled and stuck its hard edges into Joe's thigh with every movement he made. "What happened with Kalas already has the Council running scared; this plan of theirs to get all the junior Watchers cross-trained shows that they're anticipating the need to mobilize us-"

"_Us_," Joe interrupted, pointing to himself. "Mortals."

Adam turned his arm up and stuck his wrist out far enough for the tattoo to again become visible, then let the coat's cuff slide back into place to cover it. "They sent me one of those letters, too. Well, they would have if I hadn't hopped onto the first flight out of Paris when I heard the Council's decision—which was not easy to do on a Researcher's salary, in case you're wondering. Whether you like it or not, the last thing you need to be doing right now is eliminating more Watchers."

"_One_ isn't going to make a difference," Joe countered.

With a tip of his chin, Adam appeared to concede Joe's point, then negated it all when he added, "I suppose that depends on which one." He caught Joe's eyes with a meaningful look.

Unfortunately, he had a point. With everything he knew, both officially as the Methos researcher and covertly as the man himself, he was a valuable asset to the Watcher organization. And now with Don gone...Joe choked up at the thought of his old friend who had died such a horrible death. Don's loss was a huge blow to the organization that he had dedicated his life to.

From the shadow that passed over Adam's face, Joe guessed that he was also thinking of the old bookseller. Or, that's what Methos wanted him to believe. The sense that he was being played—that Adam had done little else—continued to nag at Joe. But he still had a point. For the Council to have enacted this policy this way was proof that they were worried. About what, he didn't know. Nor was he impressed by the Council's lack of finesse in enforcing their decision.

Grabbing a shot glass and the bottle of his best whiskey, he poured himself a double serving and hefted it. The amber liquid glimmered under the bar lights. "OK," he said. "I'll let you do your field training with me." He waited until Adam started to lift his beer to toast and seal the agreement before adding, "On one condition."

Adam waited with his bottle tipped toward Joe.

"You get the new policy repealed."

"I'm just a researcher, Joe. I'm not even high ranking enough to be exempted from retraining."

Joe raised his eyebrows and stared down the oldest man in the world. Only the slight quiver of the glass in his hand gave away his insecurity.

At last Adam relented, admitting to what they both knew would have to be true for anyone who had spent centuries affiliated with the Watchers. "All right, OK. So I may have a few strings I can pull." A second longer and he brought his bottle across the bar to meet Joe's glass with a clink. They each drained their drink and Adam set his empty down with a moue of disappointment. "How about another one?"

With a shake of his head, Joe denied him. "No drinking on the job." He set his own glass aside, pulled the crinkled letter from his pocket and spread it flat on the bar so that his new student could read it. "First we make a plan for this."

"What? Now?"

"Some of us don't have time to burn," Joe responded. "We made an agreement. Effective immediately."


End file.
